


The Highest Art

by transmarkcohen



Series: Highest Art Sort of Series [1]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:58:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14719161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmarkcohen/pseuds/transmarkcohen
Summary: Mark Cohen falls into a deep pit after discovering what he can feel. Joanne should never have encouraged him. She regrets it deeply.





	1. Prologue: The Demon Barber Of Fleet Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind/gifts).



Prologue: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions. Perhaps in the past he had been, but he was no longer so. This was a fleeting thought as he walked home in his worn down sneakers. The laces were carefully tied, a detail he’d been careless about in previous years. He knew his way around now. He came upon the building just as he was about to sit, and decided to go inside.  
Roger wasn’t home. Good. Mark needed as much planning as he could. If this did not go perfectly…  
Mark made a grim face. The very thought. Joanne would certainly have him turned in. She’d already been planning to do so, anyway. It made Mark restless enough that he now could not sleep without a Sominex.  
He grabbed his paper and a pencil, and began to write. He was done with worrying about his former accomplice. Joanne would be gone by two days’ morning.  
If only she’d retained her original dark passion, the one he shared with her…


	2. Cell Block Tango

    **Three years earlier.**  
    Joanne had told Mark to meet her here, a small, out-of-the-way café. He had no idea what she wanted, but it sounded urgent. And somewhat nervous, though he couldn’t fathom why.  
    He entered the café and a seedy-looking waiter glared at him. Joanne waved at him from a table in the back, and he quickly headed over, sitting across from her. She studied him for a bit before greeting him.

    “Hello,” said Joanne. Mark nodded in response. He glanced around him warily.  
    “What is this place?” he asked Joanne.  
    “A place to plan. Look-Maureen’s been at it again, going after this guy or that girl, and I want to put an end to it.” She placed her hand on the table and leaned towards Mark. “Forever.”  
    Mark frowned, scrunching his face in confusion. “What are you talking about?”he asked. “How would you-?”  
    Joanne grabbed a napkin and began drawing something on it. “Let’s just say, we’re placing the bucket, and she’ll kick it.”  
    It took Mark a few moments, but he nearly shrieked when he realized what she meant. “You want to m-?!”  
    “Shh! Keep your voice down,” Joanne hissed. “Yes, I want to murder Maureen. Cheating’s gone on too long, and obviously you can relate to this.”  
    “I...I can…” said Mark slowly.  
    “Well, are you in or not?”  
    “I don’t know…”  
    Joanne frowned, trying to think how she could get him to help her. “We can frame Benny. Secure justice for all he’s done against us. He gets sent to jail, Maureen gets sent to heaven-or hell, more likely-and we get to live happily ever after.” She surveyed the small man. “Sound like a plan?”

   “Yes, Joanne, yes it does,” Mark muttered a few days later as he stood at the door to her and Maureen’s apartment. They’d gone over more aspects of this particular plan, and Mark was in place. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. _Tok. Tok. Tok._ Joanne would recognize the signal.  
   As promised, Maureen opened the door. She gave a small smile at seeing Mark. “Marky! How are you?” she said. “Come in! Joanne’s in the back, working on something.” She rolled her eyes somewhat lovingly. “Workaholic.”  
   “Uh, one, don’t call me Marky,” Mark replied. He fidgeted his hands more than usual on purpose. He had to seem awkward, even more so than he was, or it wouldn’t work. “Two, um...I came to...ask you something.”  
   “What about?” Maureen said as she led him to the couch. They sat down on it, Mark looking at the floor and Maureen attempting to look into his eyes. They’d been in this kind of talk before. Maureen wondered…  
   “Do you...know the poem of the Ten Little Soldier Boys?” Mark asked, finally looking up and meeting Maureen’s eyes. Somewhat confident. His mind floated in this state of consciousness, the reality of what he was about to do-or at least be an accomplice to-refusing to sink in.  
   Maureen started. “The Ten Little Soldier Boys?”  
   “Yeah, well…”  
   Just then Joanne came in carrying a tray with some glasses on it. She set it on the coffee table in front of Maureen and Mark. “I heard you two talking and thought you might like something to drink.” The drinks looked mysterious, some swirly green color-a mist inside a wine glass.  
  Maureen grinned. “Pookie! This is so nice.” She reaches for one of the glasses, but Joanne’s hand stopped her.  
  “That one’s for Mark.” She locked eyes with him and he gave the slightest of nods. Joanne carefully handed the correct glass to Maureen, who took it with an adoring look in her eyes.  
  “I love you, Pookie,” Maureen said, and drank.  
Mark shifted on the couch to get comfortable. “As I was saying, in that poem, the first line is _Ten little soldier boys went out to dine…_  
  Joanne finished for him. “ _One choked himself and then there were nine.”_  
  Maureen’s eyes widened. She held a hand to her throat as she began coughing, choking. The glass fell from her hand and smashed on the floor. She was heaving, choking, choking, coughing...she held her hands to her throat as she fell forward, off the couch, down, down, down-  
  She hit the floor. _Thud_.  
  Mark and Joanne looked at each other, each slowly giving a triumphant smile.  
  Maureen Johnson was dead.  



	3. Back To The Future

     Mark smiled slightly, remembering that day. One of the best days of his life. Now he was sitting on his bed, his camera resting next to him. Roger wasn't home yet. Good. He needed as much planning time as possible.   
      Mark laid back against the bed, the cool comforter pressed against him. It was...well, comfortable.  
      He thought about what’d led him here. The killings and all. How many people had it been now?   
      Seven, something reminded him. Seven people. Seven victims.   
He frowned. Not a lot. But he supposed it would have to do for now, until he could get out and kill more. Joanne would be the eighth.   
      Mark sat up again, inconsistent with his positions. Roger should be home by now. That was a shame. He needed more time…  
      Oh well. He could use Roger to pass the time.  
  
      Roger did indeed come home soon, a few minutes after Mark had been contemplating his return. They sat down to have dinner-a rare thing for either-and ended up discussing everything.         Mark tried to steer the conversation as hard as he could away from Joanne.   
       “Have you heard about that new spike on the West Side?” Roger asked, eating his dinner somewhat slower. “Murders. Some serial killer-they're trying to catch him, but he's impossible. The Phantom of New York, that's what they call him.”   
       “Do they now?” answered Mark calmly. “They're sure it's a man?”   
       Roger nodded. “Yeah. And-I don't know, but he seems like he's moving over to the East Side.” Roger glanced up. “I have a feeling he started here. Remember Maureen?”   
      Mark looked away. “Of course I do,” he said, trying to force some source of remorse or sadness into his voice. “How was work?”   
      Roger frowned, but brushed it off as Mark still being pained by Maureen’s death. “Good,” he said.  
“Good.”  
      At some point, Mark scooted over to be next to Roger. Though not perfect, he liked their relationship. What he felt about Roger was…special. He'd considered maybe…  
      No. He couldn't do that. Roger loved him. He couldn't betray his trust.   
      So Mark took Roger’s hand and whispered in his ear, “You're mine. Don't forget that.”   
Roger nodded. And for the moment, a brief glimpse of contentedness passed.  
       At least, Roger brushed away the uneasiness he felt at Mark whispering in his ear as contentedness. But he couldn't shake the feeling.


	4. Partner In Crime

     Mark headed over to Joanne’s place at 11:30 that night with a rope and a knife. He knew she would be asleep-and he knew she had tried to get him to back off from killing people. He scowled. He wouldn't back off. This made him feel alive.   
     Roger was fast asleep in their bed. Mark remembered what he'd said just before they'd gone to sleep. (Or at least, Roger had. Mark had to stay up to be ready for this.)

  
      _“You're mine,” said Mark, stroking Roger’s cheek. “You know that?”_  
 _Roger nodded. “I know it,” he whispered. “I always know it.”_  
 _“Good. I don't want anyone taking you away from me.”_  
 _“I know.”_  
 _Mark pressed his lips to Roger’s. “Good.”_  
 _Roger smiled slightly. “Mark, I just want to go to sleep.”_  
 _“Alright.” Mark reached up and turned out the lights. “Good night. Remember. Don't you ever forget that. Because if you do…”_  
 _“I know. Good night, Mark.”_

      And that was that. Mark rounded the corner of Joanne’s place and climbed up and in through the window, silent as a mouse. He knew Roger wouldn't forget it. Yet some part of him felt he had to keep reminding his partner.  
      _His_ partner. And no one else’s.   
Mark looked around the room. Over the years his night vision had improved quite a bit. One look told him this was Joanne’s room. She was fast asleep in her bed, turned on her side and snoring.   
     Mark frowned with determination. Like the rest of his murders, he'd make sure this one was silent. No screaming.   
     He took the rope and tied it around her throat, then pulled it taut. The snoring stopped. He grabbed the handle of the knife, the blade flashing a reflection of the lights just outside the window. He plunged it into Joanne’s heart and quickly yanked it away, spilling some blood on himself.   
     Mark sat down and calmly watched as Joanne died. He put the knife on his lap, it still dripping blood and him not caring one bit. Joanne’s breathing became more ragged, slower.   
     Until it disappeared forever.   
     Mark smiled. He used Joanne’s  bathroom to wash his hands clean, and slowly escaped into the night, removing all evidence.   
     And with that, the Phantom of New York had committed his eighth murder. 


	5. Be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my editor, Izzy on this chapter.

       Roger was home. Mark was out somewhere-Roger didn’t know where. Okay. That was okay. He didn’t have to know where Mark was every waking moment. The rushing water flowing from the tap calmed him as he washed dishes.  
       It was these kinds of times when Roger would reflect on their relationship. Specifically, the...moments he’d felt odd about. The moments he’d felt odd _during_.   
       He tried to push them aside again, like so many times when he and Mark had been together. There hadn’t been anything wrong...Everything was fine.

 _“C'mon, we’ve got to. You know what day it is…”_  
       “I don’t know…”  
       “You have to! I mean, we have to!”  
       “I...okay.”

 _“Who were you talking to?”  
       “My friend.”  
       “It looked like you were flirting.”  
       “I promise I wasn’t!”  
       “Hang out with him less, then, so you won’t try and flirt with him. I know I sound harsh, but...I’m just trying to protect you.”  
       “Okay.”_  
  
       Roger washed this plate a bit slower, an uneasy feeling creeping up in his stomach. Mark _was_ just trying to protect him…right?   
      Yeah. Yeah, of course he was. Mark only wanted what was best for Roger. Mark was always right.   
      Yeah.

  
      Mark came back sometime later, and, as it turned out, was committing a deadly sin-lust. He desperately wanted Roger and acted extremely physical with him to show it. So obviously Roger agreed.  
      After it, he realized he hadn’t really wanted to. But he had to make Mark happy. Mark’s happiness was all Roger needed to care about.   
      He tried to ask Mark where he’d gone before and Mark snapped at him to back off. It hurt something inside Roger-which was odd. He thought you’d expect maybe a kid who’d been rejected to feel hurt like that. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, but we can’t right now.” That kind of thing.  
      From somebody being condescending-being-well, maybe Mark could be a little condescending at times.  
      It certainly wasn’t all the time, thought Roger, and maybe it was just something Mark needed to work on. But...no, he couldn’t bring it up with him. Mark would just get angry at him. Again.  
      If Roger ever thought that they needed to work on something, make their relationship better-which was rare-Mark would briefly acknowledge it, then dissuade the conversation from it. And there was...well…  
     The other day, Roger had been in the living room, waiting for Mark to come home. He remembered…  
      _The key opened in the lock and Mark walked in. His eyes had a weird hunger in them...Roger wondered...Mark looked toward Roger and walked over._  
    “Hello,” Mark said, wrapping his arms around Roger and moving his hands up to his neck. He kissed Roger and Roger gave in, kissing back. “Mmm…..”  
    “Mark, what-?”   
    “Shh.”   
    Mark pressed into Roger, holding onto him tighter and slowly laying him against the couch. Mark was on top.  
    “Oh,” said Roger.  
  
    And then it happened. Roger hadn't been expecting it, really, or necessarily wanting it, but Mark did and Roger went along with it. Roger wondered a bit why Mark hadn't even asked, just headed straight into it when he came home. But it was fine. Roger began to think this was what he needed to do in a relationship. His partner was better than him and to be happy, he had to make them happy.  
   Right?   
   …Right. 


	6. End Of Me

      Mark walked back home slowly, his twelfth murder having just been committed. Two in one night. Two different houses...he was getting careless. Oh well. Hopefully Roger wouldn’t notice.  
      Mark scowled at that thought. Roger was being...well, more careless than Mark, almost these days. He forgot things, he talked back to Mark, he looked around the apartment as if he was afraid of something. But Mark could never tell what.  
      The door creaked open as he stepped inside. Roger wasn't in the living room. Some part of Mark was frustrated at this. He wasn't sure why, but he thought maybe it was because he needed some sort of emotional release after two killings. And Roger wasn't immediately there. That was frustrating, thought Mark, I deserve this tonight.  
      He quickly got a bath, however, and put his knife back into its normal hiding spot. He walked back to their room and turned the light on.  
      Roger held a hand in front of his face as he slowly woke up, trying not to be blinded by the  light. “Mark…?”  
      Mark smiled. “There you are,” he said, climbing into bed. He rolled over onto Roger and kissed him. His hands were on the back of Roger’s neck.  
      “It's so late…”  
      “Yes. It is,” Mark breathed, kissing Roger’s neck. “I had a reason for being out so late.”  
      “Are we really doing this now?”  
      “Yes,” answered Mark, slightly annoyed. Of course they were! Did Roger not want to?  
      “Oh. Okay.” Roger gave in, and Mark was happy again. And he'd decided-he would tell Roger. Tell him everything.  
      Mark took Roger’s shirt off as he spoke. (He’d gone to sleep in his clothes, seemingly forgetting his pajamas.) “Y’know, I've been going out this late for some time.” He went down Roger’s body, kissing it.  
      _I know_ , Roger wanted to say. But he didn't. That would have been talking back and Mark wouldn't…  
      “There’s a reason for it. You remember Joanne?”  
       _Joanne...Joanne died!_ Roger’s eyes widened as he remembered. He had gone to her funeral, he had been...Mimi had been there. But he could hardly talk to her, he had been following Mark like a duckling. It was unexpected of course, but Roger had never been that close to Joanne...and he'd been contemplating his relationship with Mark again that day.  
      “Well, I killed her.”  
      The words took a while to register in Roger’s mind. When they finally did-  
       _Oh._  
      “Oh my god!” Roger shrieked. “You-you- _you_ -”  
      Mark nodded, a strange gleam in his eyes. “I’ve been waiting to tell you. I think we’re close enough now that I can. Joanne and I killed Maureen together and it woke something up in me-something amazing-that just...I don't know, I love killing people.” He kissed Roger again on the lips. Cold lips. Roger didn't know how to feel at all about any of this. He just-he became numb. “And in other ways, too.”

      Morning came sooner than expected. Roger opened his eyes to see a dim sky through the window, their light still on. It was an incandescent bulb. A weird thought to have, but…what else could he think? After last night…  
     Oh god. Last night. Roger turned over to see Mark still fast asleep. He realized he was still shirtless. He hadn't been thinking last night, he’d…Roger glanced wildly. He didn't know where he was looking. He didn't know where to look. He had to get his shirt back on.  
He reached over the bed. It was tossed on the floor in a pile. He quickly put it back on and immediately felt better. Calmer.  
     Then again, how calm could you be when your boyfriend was a murderer?  
     Not only a murderer, it suddenly dawned on Roger. A serial killer. Joanne had been killed by the Phantom. The Phantom of New York. Mark was the Phantom of New York.  
And-and he'd killed Maureen.  
     He'd killed ten people in total. Oh god. Oh god. Wait-no, Mark was out last night. “Eleven,” Roger whispered to himself, horrified.  
     A sleepy voice came from the other side of the bed. “Twelve,” answered Mark.  
Roger looked towards him in fear.  
     “Twelve,” Mark repeated, turning over to face Roger. “Two people last night. I'm getting careless. You, too. You should be more careful.”  
     “More…careful?” Roger asked, his voice cracking. Oh god. He hated that.  
Mark yawned and reached for his glasses. “Yeah. Be more careful. You absolutely need to, you're an idiot sometimes.”  
     Any other circumstance-any trace of old Mark-and that sentence would've been endearing, caring. But-but no. This was...this was…  
     “I…” Roger said. He felt tears nearly coming to his eyes. “I'm going back to sleep.”  
     Mark let out a low growl of frustration and Roger froze. “What-?”  
     “Be ready for me later.”  
     “Mark, please, just let me sleep.”  
     “Fine. I have an assignment to take care of anyway.”  
     “...Assignment?” Roger’s eyes were wide with fear.  
     “Yeah, I’m a hitman. That's where I've been getting that money from. ‘Cause it's my job.” Mark got up. “I actually have a couple today. You're coming to the second one, I have something to show you.”  
     Roger laid like a statue in their bed while Mark got dressed and headed out. What was his life? Why did he put up with this? Mark hadn't even given him a choice about coming to a…a freaking _murder_.  
     Roger put his face in his hands and tried not to cry himself to sleep.

     Mark did indeed bring Roger along for the second murder, but told him to wait in the living room of the apartment while he did his job. Once he was done, he beckoned Roger to the back room.  
     Roger froze as he saw the sight. He was immediately transported into a horror video game. He… _“Oh my god,”_ Roger whispered, horrified.  
     The body-the victim-they were lying on the floor, face down. Next to their bed. Blood on the floor. Red, red, so red. Oh god. Neck snapped. Stabbed. Splat.  
     “Beautiful, isn't it,” Mark whispered. His eyes had a light in them. A twinkle. He grinned at his kill. “It's the highest art form…to give or take life. And I take it.”  
     “You're an awful person!” Roger cried out. “You-you-”  
     Mark laughed, cutting Roger off. “Ha. I suppose you could put it that way. But isn't it better? More people die…and down the population goes. Police, detectives, get another job. They get notoriety because of me and I get it from them. I get paid more because of it. The only cycle worth participating in…” Mark looked at Roger and scowled. “You should understand, you were addicted to smack!”  
     Roger was backing up, backing up, backing away. No, no, no. “You're not even…you're mean…and, and wicked…and _wrong_!”  
     Mark laughed again, smiling a cruel smile. “I'm not good, yes,” he admitted. “I'm not nice…but I _am_ right.”  
     He checked his watch. “Now come on, we need to go before they find us. Jail is the one thing I'm not doing.” He grabbed the sleeve of Roger’s jacket and pulled him away.  
Away, away, away…  
     But Roger would never get away, he realized now. Mark didn't want to go to prison and at the same time was running the one that Roger was trapped in.


	7. None Of Woman Born

                                    “If it were done when ‘tis done, ‘t’were well it were done quickly.”  
                                                                                                                    -Macbeth  
          After having introduced Roger to the most closely guarded aspect of his life, Mark began to kick up the murders. He supposed it was some sort of addiction, some dark obsession…  
          Mark walked quickly along the street, his knife secured safely in the jacket pocket. The jacket belonged to Roger, but he had to know Mark might take it tonight. There was no point in arguing. Not when Roger _was_ Mark’s-and therefore anything that was Roger’s was Mark’s.  
          He'd had an idea, a sort of enlightenment at this last murder...an idea that involved Roger.  
He started to walk more quickly, a grin growing on his face. How exciting! He walked to the 24-hour store that was open on 4th Street. By the time he got there he was grinning from ear to ear.  
          He pushed open the door. A tired-looking cashier stood at the counter, barely noticing Mark as he walked in. The cashier shrugged and pointed him to the back of the store, recognizing him since he was a regular.  
          “Thank you,” said Mark. “I’m indebted to you.” He walked to the back and looked. _Perfect_.  
          The cashier yawned and continued toggling the buttons on the cash register.  
          Mark looked for the best poison. _One just to hurt, not to kill._  
          After all, this one was for Roger.

          It was the next day. Mark cheerily hummed as he made dinner. Roger was on the couch, staring at his hands and occasionally watching Mark. Some sort of look in his eyes, some sort of...awe. Admiration. Mark smiled at him and Roger looked down again. He must be so proud, thought Mark, so proud of me...how many people is it now? Fifteen? What an impressive number!  
         Mark finished pouring the secret ingredient into Roger’s drink. He finished with the dinner as well and served it, sitting next to his boyfriend. Roger stared at the meal for a second.  
         “Well? Eat!”  
         Roger did without a second thought, obeying Mark’s order. He reached for his drink and Mark reached for his camera, discreetly turning it on to film this. Roger brought the drink to his lips and sipped it.  
         He put the drink down. His face contorted. “Oh God,” Roger whispered. He doubled over, holding onto his stomach. “Ow, ow, ow...ow! This is worse than-than any cramp-it’s burning…” He glanced up helplessly at Mark. Seeing that he was smiling, Roger’s face fell. “You did this!”  
         Mark laughed. The worst part was that it didn’t even _sound_ evil. It was a normal laugh.  
         “Of course I did! It’s so much fun to watch people in pain. And you, especially...oh my god, that was amazing!” He turned the camera off, not bothering to hide it this time. “And it was in part for the times you’ve talked back to me. Punishment. Perhaps next time you’ll be more careful…”  
         He leaned towards Roger. “Won’t you?”  
         Roger was still doubled over, still in pain, still…  
         “No,” he said. “You…you’re wrong about everything. I…I hate…” He doubled over agian, clutching his stomach tightly. “You don’t want to go to prison but you’re the head of the one I’m in!”  
         Mark wasn’t smiling now. Not smiling at all. He brought Roger’s face up to look at him. He slapped Roger.  
There was a moment of silence. Hear a pin drop kind of silence.  
         Roger closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “You…you were right and I was wrong.” He took a deep breath. In. Out. “What do you want to do?”  
         Mark grinned. “I’m so glad you asked.”

         Another month passed. Twenty victims.  
         The police had all but given up on catching the Phantom of New York, him escaping them every time.  
        _“He won’t be defeated, not by anyone born of a woman,”_ an officer on TV was saying one day. Mark was watching the news and grinned when he heard this line. Not even thinking it was a weird way to say something.  
         “And who is it that wasn’t born of a woman?” Mark asked to himself, and laughed aloud.  
         Roger also heard this line, but at a different time.  
         Suddenly, he had a glimpse at a brighter future.


	8. Suddenly, Mimi

     A moral of life:  
     Rich people can kind of suck.  
     And that's why Mark decided to get rid of three of them.

     The Phantom was still up to his old tricks, and while it was somewhat harder to scale this particular building, it was made of bricks and plenty were jutting out.     Mark reached the window and climbed in to the room.  
     He let his night vision adjust-it did this pretty quickly-and saw the two sleeping figures in the bed. Perfect.  
     Mark walked into their kitchen, as he hadn't bothered to bring his supplies on the climb up. Only his trusted knife that was kept in his jacket pocket. (Well, Roger’s. But the jacket was his now-Roger had even given it to him.) He looked for something in the kitchen, something, anything…had to frame…  
     Aha. Mark grinned as he grabbed a chef’s knife. He ran his finger along the blade, contemplating the length. He wondered if this would be technically compensating for something.  
     He briefly laughed at that. Okay. He could do this. He went back to Benny and Alison’s room. Two victims in one night. Not so hard, just had to make sure…  
     He turned the light on. Careful not to wake either up. Suddenly he had an idea. Oh, how hilarious would it be-?  
     He placed the knife from the kitchen in Benny’s hand, and grabbing his landlord’s hand, used it to stab Alison. His other hand covered her mouth. No screaming. Silent, silent, silent.  
Once she was dead, he took out his own knife and used it to kill Benny. As if two different people had committed the two different murders here.  
     He climbed back out the window and slipped into the night.

     Birds have a habit of sitting on powerlines. And while in New York City the most common kind is a pigeon, these birds happened to be crows. Six of them sat across from the window. Still and black like the dusky night. The window needed to be clean, he could admit that. It was greasy and fingerprints ran along it. But it was just a window.  
     He watched as two of the crows flew away. Four now. And then three others. One was left.  
He brought the coffee cup back up to his lips and sipped. The ring flashed on his finger as the morning sun shone through that very same window, glinting off the pure gold.  
     An engagement ring.  
Roger thought about this, about what’d happened in the past few months. He was _engaged_. And he couldn't be happier.  
     He didn't want anyone but Mark, he didn't care about anything but Mark. He convinced himself he'd been wrong before. Mark was right. He knew that. Mark was always right. He slowly smiled. He wondered why it'd took him so long to realize.  
     Every moment spent apart from his fiancé was torture. He longed for his embrace, wanting Mark, wanting…  
     It was tradition by now. When Mark came home, Roger would be ready on the couch. Sometimes even undressed. Mark seemed happier each time.  
     They would just go right into it. No talking, just…  
     Even if Roger didn't feel like it. What Mark felt like was what was important and what he had to care about. Everything was about Mark. Even if he did still occasionally slap Roger for not being good enough of a partner.    But that's all it was. Just a slap.  
     Roger was finally happy. And he repeated it to himself, to remind him that he really was happiest like this.

     A few days later, Mark and Roger were downstairs in Mimi’s apartment. Mark sat upright, his eyes surveying. He held Roger’s hand.  
    Roger slumped. He let Mark hold his hand. He let Mark do whatever he wanted to him.  
Mimi was there, talking to them.    “So you're going to tie the knot,” she said. It sounded slightly awkward, but the news had just played a clip about how law enforcement still couldn't catch the Phantom. Mimi had wondered if Benny had been killed by the same guy. As well as Mr. Grey, who’d died in a similar manner a few days after Benny. Obviously Benny had killed Alison.  
    Roger nodded. Mark smiled.   “We couldn't be happier,” he said.   “Isn't that right?”  
    Roger nodded again. He felt oddly…numb. Mimi frowned, noticing he didn't look too excited or happy or, well, _anything_.  
    “You alright, Roger?”  
    “I’m-”  
    “He's fine,” Mark interjected, not giving Roger a chance to speak. He held onto his hand tighter. Mark’s ring glittered as if it were expensive. Roger had guessed he'd stolen it. Well, that was romantic, wasn't it? That Mark had risked so much to propose to Roger?  
    “He's just a bit…tired.” Mark smiled sympathetically at Roger, then turned back to Mimi with calculating eyes. “How are you?”  
    Mimi stood up. “Roger,” she said, “could I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”


	9. So Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: This chapter is formatted a bit weirdly. There was an issue transferring it from the Google Doc to ao3. Hopefully the format does not ruin your enjoyment of the chapter. If possible, I will fix this as soon as I can.

               Inside Mimi’s room, where she’d brought Roger so they could talk alone, Roger was twisting his engagement ring around his finger. A weird kind of nervous habit that he wasn’t sure how it was brought on.    
               Mimi watched him curiously. And with a bit of sadness.                                                                                                                             
             “Why did you want to talk?” asked Roger. “Mark’s gonna be concerned. And I don’t want him to be.”                                                    
             "It’s _about_ Mark,” Mimi explained. “Roger... do you really like being with him?”                                                                                           
             “Yes.”  
            Mimi frowned. “Why do you let him interrupt you?”                                                                                                                                    
             Roger looked at her in surprise. “Interrupt me?”                                                                                                                                         
           “Just now. I asked how you were and you were about to say something, but he interrupted and said you were fine.”                               
           “Well, he’s right. I don’t have any reason to contradict him.” Roger smiled down at his engagement ring. “Just imagine it. A few months from now…I’ll be so happy. And that’s saying something. I can’t imagine being happier than I am now. With him.” He glanced warily at Mimi. “Why are you trying to interfere in our relationship?”                                                                                     Mimi wondered if she should press, but something still felt off, so she did. “How did he propose to you?”                                                
            Roger drew into himself. Why was Mimi so concerned? And why did he want her to keep asking about his relationship? “He came home one day and said ‘Will you marry me?’ and of course I couldn’t say no, I only need to care about his happiness-”                          
            “Roger.”                                                                                                                                                                                                       
            “What _now_?”                                                                                                                                                                                                 
            Mimi crouched in front of him, placing her hands on his. “Why couldn’t you say no?” she asked, her voice gentle but demanding.                                                                                                     “Because I love him,” Roger answered, bewildered. “I have to put him before myself, I only need to care about him. I mean, isn’t that how you’ll actually be happy in a relationship?”                         “Does he care about your needs?”                                                                                                                                                               
           “Yes! Of course he does!”                                                                                                                                                                            
            “How do you know that?” Roger’s face was filled with confusion by now. “Why wouldn’t I?” he said. “He comes home and I’ll be there, ready, and he’ll thank me afterwards for it. We’ll just head straight into it, we don’t need to talk-I only need to care about him. His happiness. He matters more than me.”                                                                                                                                 Mimi’s face fell. “Oh god,” she whispered. “This is worse than I thought.”                                                                                                   
           “No,” Roger insisted. “No, it’s amazing.”                                                                                                                                                        
           Mimi said nothing in reply and just hugged Roger.

          Mark, meanwhile, was waiting in the living room, a bit impatient. Mimi had taken his fiancé out of his sight,and he had no idea what they were doing. Could they be-? No, Mark thought, no, Roger wouldn’t cheat on me. I’d have to…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           At that moment, the pair came back into the living room. Mark looked over the two, and Mimi was glancing at him. She had a strange look in her eyes.                                                                     Roger quickly went over to Mark, leaning into him and taking his hand.                                                                                                                                                                                         Mark frowned.                                                                                                                                                                                 
         Something had definitely happened. 


	10. Act 1 Finale

It was a week after they’d gone to Mimi’s. Roger hadn’t told Mark what Mimi had said, but he’d become even more submissive and loving to Mark since then, which Mark didn’t have a problem with.  
Roger was sitting on the couch shirtless, waiting for Mark to come home. The door swung open.   
His fiancé stood there, covered and dripping with wet, sticky, red blood.  
Roger felt something at seeing Mark-admiration? Yeah, that had to be it. Before he might have mistaken it for fear. But he knew that was wrong now.  
“Who did you kill?” Roger asked.  
“Somebody for hire. And another unplanned one.”  
“Who?”  
“Just an annoying neighbor.” Mark walked over to Roger and grabbed his face to kiss him. “But we don’t have time today. They’ll be here any minute.”  
“Who-” Roger began, but he didn’t get to finish, as at that moment the cops came into the loft.

Everything from then on was a blur. Roger scrambled to get his shirt on, and when he was done, he saw that Mark was handcuffed. He’d tried to punch a cop, Roger had heard it. The cop’s eye was swollen. Blood was on the floor. Roger figured it had come from Mark, who was still dripping. Who had even called the cops?   
Mimi.  
The name flashed in Roger’s mind. He stood up. How dare she. She'd still been trying to interfere-she thought Mark was-  
Did she know? Did she know that he was a murderer?   
“Oh, she found out,” Mark replied casually. Roger realized he'd spoken out loud. The cops were looking at Roger, who they somehow hadn't seen before.   
“Found…?”  
“I was coming back up here. Trying to get cleaned up. And she saw me. She knew it wasn't paint.” Mark flicked a speck of blood off his pants. “Clearly, I had to get rid of her. She'd already tried to meddle with our relationship.”   
Roger stared at Mark with wide eyes. Mimi…he’d killed Mimi…  
Something started. He wasn't sure what. Roger felt…he didn't know. He never knew. But this wasn't admiration. Maybe, finally, it was fear again.  
But he brushed that part aside when he realized part of him hoped it was fear.   
He wasn't scared of his fiancé. He was scared of Mimi. Of her meddling, of her interference. Of what he felt when she asked about his relationship with Mark. And Mimi was gone. Mark had gotten rid of her, once and for all. And for that-Roger couldn't thank him enough.   
He was pulled sharply back to reality as a cop spoke. Roger couldn't hear what he said, his mind was hazy, they were taking Mark out the door-he let out a hoarse “no”-Mark leaned toward Roger and kissed him-“I’ll come back to you”-and he was taken.   
And Roger was left alone.   
Mimi was dead, Mark was in prison, and Roger sat on the couch with a blank mind. 

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Act 2 Opener

Roger sat on the couch one day, months later, doodling in his lyric notebook. He’d visited Mark that day. It hadn’t been… anything special. Just a typical visit.  
“Hey. You doing alright?”  
“Yeah. I… yeah.”  
“That’s good. You’re waiting for me?”  
“Yes. Yes, of course. I want you, I… I’m yours.”  
“Good. I love you. Don’t forget.”  
“I remember, Mark. I love you, too.”

Mark had to come back soon. Roger was lost without him. He supported the killings, he supported his-his fiance, that was right, in all he did. Mark had to get out. As long as he led Roger along, Roger wasn’t lost. He needed Mark.  
Roger sighed. He put down the notebook and headed back to bed.

A few days later, there was a knock on the door.  
Roger came to get it, thinking nothing of it. However, when he opened the door-  
“Mark!” Roger cried, and the man smiled. It was a powerful smile bordering on a smirk. Roger loved it. Couldn’t get enough of it.  
Mark put his arms around Roger’s neck and kissed him. Roger kissed back-and eagerly, for once. Mark moved his hands down to Roger’s hips, making him back up. Roger moved his hands to Mark’s face. He briefly broke the kiss off. “How’d you get out?” He cried. His eyes gleamed joyously.   
“I had my knife,” Mark breathed, his forehead pressed to Roger’s. “I have my ways. Figured it out. They couldn’t defeat me.” He pressed his lips back to Roger’s, and Roger gladly obliged.   
Mark made it so that they slowly walked to the bedroom, trying not to let his knife in his pocket cut his leg. He pulled Roger closer, into him. Sat Roger back on the bed. Started to unbutton his shirt.  
Roger closed his eyes. The old routine was so familiar, so comfortable. Mark didn’t even have to push him back onto the bed this time-he fell back, into the comfortable space, and got ready.  
Mark leaned down and kissed him, his hand cupping Roger’s cheek. Roger kissed back.  
Suddenly, he felt the cool metal against his neck. Roger opened his eyes.  
Mark was staring at him. His eyes were intense. No nonsense. Roger frowned. “Mark… ?” he asked.   
That breathy voice again. Roger wasn’t sure whether it was attractive or not. “Turns out you angered a lot of people, Davis,” Mark said. “And they offered too large a sum to pass up.”  
All of Roger’s body turned cold. He froze. “Mark, I-I don’t get it.”  
Mark angled the knife so the slightest cut was made. A trickle of blood from Roger’s neck.  
“And nothing could make me happpier than combining the two things I love most.”  
“Mark-” Roger’s eyes widened. “Mark, no! God-God, please, don’t do this, I’ll kill somebody for you, anybody, please, God, no-I’ll do anything-”  
“I want you dead,” Mark hissed, and he sliced off Roger’s head.  
Once he was sure Roger was dead, he lifted the head by its hair and pressed its lips to his. He kissed it.  
What a venture to have Salome herself kill John the Baptist.


	12. Mr. Cohen

After having sold the head to the person who’d paid him so much, Mark had to decide what to do about the body-and who to kill next. The person who’d paid him was somebody Roger had angered for some reason years ago. They hadn’t told Mark all the details, and he hadn’t bothered to ask. They didn’t want the body anyway and Mark did. For a few days, at least. Well, a few days had passed, and he had to figure out how to hide it. It was too suspicious to let the police find this one.

So Mark was in the kitchen, eating a snack, while Roger’s body was back in their room. He’d been careful not to let it smell.

He finished the snack and through the wrapper away, deciding to take a walk and commit a murder. He’d be home before dinner.

 

Mark came home and went to the bathroom to wash up. As he stood in front of the sink, rubbing his hands together and watching the red liquid as it poured into the sink, he looked up at himself in the mirror.

And he was shocked by what he saw.

Mark Cohen was standing there. But it wasn’t Mark Cohen. The filmmaker that Roger had fallen in love, the awkward, nerdy, geeky, lovable, fidgeting person was replaced by…what? Two soulless, dull blue eyes stared back at him, glasses framing them. His hair was unkempt. His face…sallow and hollow. Unfeeling. His hands were knobby, knuckly…he finished washing them and turned off the tap, his muscles taut, staring, not looking from his reflection.

And the old Mark came back. Mark before the murders, Mark before he abused Roger, Mark before Maureen’s death.

Oh God.

_Oh god oh god oh god_

“What have I done?!” he cried out, falling to his knees, staring at his hands.

Blood, blood…there was so much blood! It couldn’t get out! He rubbed his hands together frantically, trying to scrape it out, it kept coming, it kept coming, it kept coming,

How to end it, _how?!_

“Wash your hands. Put on your nightgown,” Mark mumbled to himself, though there was no one to hear it.

 

A thought occurred to him. A way to end it. To end the deaths, to stop himself, to end this monster’s reign.

He walked to the store one last time and bought a rope. He came home and put a chair on the floor in their room. Roger’s body still lay on the bed.

Mark climbed onto the chair, and hung the rope from the hook in  the ceiling. Put it around his neck.

Something flashed in his mind. He didn’t know why. Something his dad had told him when he was younger. When he was fifteen. He remembered…his dad…oh god…

_“So what are you learning about in school?”_

_“Oh, you know, all that boring Sex Ed stuff. With Rob the Sex Ed guy! That was sarcastic, by the way. He just…acts like he’s the best thing ever. Told us about his addiction or whatever.”_

_He laughed-my dad laughed-laughing, laughter, laughing-_

_“Hilarious. But you know some things already.”_ _  
_ _“Yeah.  Like the fact that you gave birth to me.”_

 _“Exactly! You were tough.”_ _  
_ _I knew he was trans. I’d known it my whole life. And Roger was trans, too._

_I should be ashamed._

_“I’m still tough, Dad. I’m the stubborn kid. Cindy’s not stubborn.”_ _  
_ _“Oh, she can be. Have you seen her when she wants Oreos?”_

_“Good point.”_

_I remember this conversation-I remember it so much-it’s-I-why now-why did I kill them-_

 

“Why did I kill her?” Mark asked himself as he fastened the noose around his neck, and kicked the chair away.

None of woman born would defeat the Phantom of New York, indeed.        


End file.
